


Tension and Relief

by fennecfawkes



Series: Relief [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Will Give Him One, Get Together, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Massage, Phil Coulson Needs a Break, Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which someone needs sleep and pain pills and Clint. But especially Clint. I'm not Stan Lee. They are not mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tension and Relief

It’s like there’s someone or something hidden behind his eyes, or perhaps directly above that, and they’re squeezing. They’re squeezing tightly, relentlessly, putting him on edge, granting him the kind of headache that won’t go away without some sort of pharmaceutical intervention and anywhere between 11 and 15 hours of sleep. He looks at the clock—1944 Captain America licensed alarm clock with red, white, and blue bells, a gift from Clint a few Christmases ago, before the Initiative existed, before Steve woke up—and calculates. It’s 6:30. No one will notice if he leaves now, goes straight to urgent care, gets the muscle relaxant prescription he needs, retrieves the pills, and eats something before going to bed on his floor at Avengers Tower. Normally he’d go home, but Park Slope feels much further away than Midtown right now, and this is what the Tower’s there for: him, when he needs it.

Phil stands and stretches and tells himself it’s not a character flaw that makes him avoid SHIELD med bay when he’s facing an entirely stress-induced ailment. CityMD’s care will be more than adequate for the problem, and he doesn’t relish the idea of anyone at SHIELD knowing that Phil Coulson gets tension headaches sometimes. He can’t even feel truly embarrassed about this one—three Doombot attacks in as many days, Romanov out with a dislocated shoulder, Thor called to Asgard for some sort of emergency involving that bastard brother of his—anyone’s head would start hurting with all that hanging over them. And it’s nothing a few pills and a good night’s rest can’t fix.

The service at the urgent care facility is prompt, and the Walgreens pharmacist isn’t as sluggish as he sometimes is, and soon enough Phil is entering the main level of the Tower. He has a fridge on his floor, but that’s not where he left last night’s beef adana. He’s just put it in the microwave when Clint, as is his wont, seems to materialize out of thin air next to him.

“Are you alright?” Clint asks. He looks and sounds concerned.

“Do I not look alright?”

Clint’s expression turns sheepish. “We all look exhausted. You just look a little more exhausted.”

Phil sees no consequence in telling Clint the truth; Clint’s not a baby agent who cherishes any excess knowledge of the enigma that is Phil Coulson. “Tension headache. I haven’t had one in years.”

Clint winces sympathetically. “Any treatment for that?”

“I’ve got some muscle relaxants. That and sleep. And if you happen to know a masseuse, send them my way.” Phil takes his food out of the microwave and sits down at the counter. Clint takes two beers out of the fridge, opens them against the counter, and sits next to Phil, handing him one. Phil nods his thanks and takes a swig before digging in.

“You know...” Clint leans his elbows onto the counter and looks sidelong at Phil. “I’m not terrible at giving massages.”

“Ringing endorsement you're giving yourself there,” says Phil.

“OK, I wasn’t going to brag, but I’m great at giving massages,” Clint says. “I’m certain no relationship I’ve been in would’ve lasted beyond two dates without my innate massage-giving ability. I mean, what else would they have to go on?”

“They’d have plenty to go on, Clint,” says Phil, and Clint’s ears turn red at the tips, and he mumbles a “Thank you” before gulping down some beer.

“Anyway,” Clint says, “I’d be happy to indulge you, if that’s what the doctor ordered. Who’d you have, anyway?”

“I didn’t go to medical,” Phil says. “I went to the urgent care facility I use when I don’t want to be pestered about why I’m so stressed. Knowing SHIELD, I’d be in required talk-therapy sessions for the next three weeks.”

“When all you really need is some drugs, some sleep, and some nice, strong hands to knock you into shape.” Clint finishes his beer and grins.

“Exactly.” Phil hands Clint his still half-full bottle; Clint keeps on grinning in lieu of thanking him. “I’m going to my floor. Meet me there in a few minutes?” Clint nods, and Phil leaves, and he wonders how good an idea this really is as he makes his way to his floor. He’s had a thing for Clint for some time, and he’s close to certain Clint feels the same way about him. And the ridiculous part is how everyone seems to know; Romanov never stops rolling her eyes at the two of them, Stark asked Phil if he didn’t just want to bunk with Clint rather than having his own floor and then feigned shock when Phil said they weren’t together, and Nick literally left a fraternization approval form on his desk not two weeks ago with a sticky note reading “Just fucking do it already, Cheese” affixed to it.

And yet.

And yet, Phil hasn’t done anything about it, because it feels like Clint should be the one who approaches him. Clint’s been through a lot in the past year, what with the mind possession and the losing his handler and—if Phil can flatter himself, and he can—close friend before finding out said handler and close friend wasn’t really dead and the months and months of required therapy. He’s as strong as he’s ever been, if not more so, and certainly strong enough to make his own decisions. Phil supposes that a massage could be a step toward making one such decision. And he’s still supposing that when Clint walks in.

“Probably best if you take your shirt off,” Clint says, flipping the lights on to their lowest setting. Phil nods and begins unbuttoning his shirt, stretching as he goes, before pulling it off and lying face down on the bed. Seconds later, the bed shifts around as Clint—Phil can’t see, but he presumes—straddles Phil, aforementioned nice, strong hands going to work in all the right places. Phil can’t help groaning softly as Clint proves he is, in fact, great at this. He decides that being vocal in his appreciation isn’t a bad thing as Clint seems to respond to it, increasing pressure, easing countless knots away with sturdy palms and calloused fingertips.

“I should keep you around, Barton,” says Phil, and he meant to sound like he was teasing, really, but it sounds nothing like that to his ears. It comes out a bit breathy, just this side of what Phil might sound like if he was trying to seduce someone. Which is absurd, really, because if anyone’s seducing in this scenario, it’s...

There’s a shift again, and Phil feels the softest touch against his neck. It’s been a while since he’s been kissed, but he remembers it feeling kind of like that—though never nearly that good, never quite so welcome as this. And then it happens again, a few more times, till there’s a tap on his shoulder and Clint’s asking if he’d like to flip over so they can kiss properly, “because I’m pretty sure we both want this, sir."

Phil makes a move to turn onto his back, and Clint climbs off him, lying on his side. Phil turns to face him.

“I don’t know if I want you to call me ‘sir’ right now, Clint,” he says.

“What would you like me to call you?”

“‘Phil’ would do nicely.”

“Alright, Phil.” Clint licks his lips, and Phil holds himself back from doing anything; this is Clint’s move, has to be Clint’s move.

“I can kiss you, right?” Clint asks, and Phil refrains from laughing to preserve Clint’s feelings, but what a thoroughly ridiculous question.

“I’ve wanted you to for some time,” says Phil. “But it had to be your decision.”

“You’ve always known how to treat me, Phil.” Clint closes the distance between them, and Phil has, in the past, had a moderate appreciation for kissing, but that’s not true anymore; now, kissing is just about the best way he could be spending his time, and Clint’s very, very good at it, good enough that Phil hopes he’s the only person Clint ever kisses again. It starts simply—closed mouths, just pressure and pulling back and soft breath on each others’ lips—but quickly turns to something deeper as Clint gently pushes Phil’s mouth open with his tongue, and there’s a lot of exploration of Phil’s mouth, and Phil can’t fathom how there’ve been this many sensitive places there that haven’t been given nearly enough attention. Clint, it seems, is eager to change that; first it’s his tongue, then his teeth are running along Phil’s lips, and he’s also eager to go beyond the mouth, below it and around it to Phil’s throat and shoulders and chest, and Phil’s glad he took his shirt off before but disappointed Clint’s is still on. He’s unconsciously pulling at Clint’s collar when Clint takes a break from biting the sensitive skin above Phil’s Adam’s apple to smile and pull his shirt over his head. Then it’s Phil’s turn to explore, and he takes his time and pushes against Clint all the while, that gentle pressure nearly enough to—

“Maybe not with the getting each other off today?” Clint says. Pants. He pants it, but Phil hears him and pulls back slightly.

“Right. It’s fast, I know,” says Phil, and he’s about to get embarrassed when Clint grins and rubs Phil’s nose with his.

“Usually... I don’t always stop,” Clint says. “I mean, I haven’t been with anyone in a while, but when I am... I just want this to be a bit more special, you know? Because I actually really, really like you. And I think you might like me, too.”

“Of course I do. Don’t ever doubt that, OK?” Phil pulls one of Clint’s hands to his face and kisses Clint’s knuckles. Clint’s still smiling, and Phil can’t believe how lucky he is, being the one who put that there.

“I won’t. I’ll try, at least,” says Clint. “Nat’s been giving me shit for weeks, you know. All this ‘Oh, of course he wants you, quit being an idiot.’ And Steve—yeah, I know, right? Steve said that we both deserved to be happy and he thought we’d make each other happy, and I told him we both were, and he said, ‘Well, happier, then.’”

“For me, it’s been Fury and Jasper and Maria and Stark,” Phil says. “But I wanted you to move first.”

“I moved.” Clint kisses Phil on the nose.

“You seem to really like my nose.”

Clint shrugs. “I like all of you. I mean, what I’ve seen, that is. And I do intend to see more. Just not right away. Maybe second, third date?”

“Sixth?”

“We’ll work something out.” Clint sits up and stands, pulling Phil off the bed with him. “We’re going to my room now, OK? My DVR is filled with the kind of shitty television you love, and my bed’s bigger.”

“That doesn’t seem entirely fair. Why does Stark like you more?”

“He doesn’t. He just knows I actually live here rather than hang around sometimes.” Clint continues pulling Phil by the hand. “How’s your head, by the way?”

“It’s been worse,” says Phil, letting himself be pulled, and getting used to that idea.

**Author's Note:**

> What's the best way to get rid of a tension headache, or at least ignore it? Write a fic in which your spirit animal Phil Coulson has one, too!


End file.
